silent movies; KHR
Just a little First Generation drabble to get into writing the characters. It was done quick, there are probably errors I'm not seeing.
Title: silent movies
Pairing: Slight Ugetsu->G.
Summary: Stars of the silent movies.
silent movies
You meet him in the sewer's of Turin. You greet him wholeheartedly, with the dirt-water clogging in your shoes and pulling your trousers tight against your legs from the knee down, and a smile impossibly genuine on your face. Spidery tattoos creep up his cheeks like spiraling black branches, thin and curled, halting at the collar of his shirt, disappearing into the alabaster hollow of his collar bone.
When you reach your hand out, he frowns. When he takes it, you won't lie, the bones hurt a little from his grip; and you counter it like you would any challenge, with a smile. You tighten your grasp, too.
"It's nice to finally meet you," you say, because it is and because it's only polite.
His fingers fumble with his gun incessantly, and it takes a moment or two before it sounds a satisfying click that he replies from a lazy corner of his mouth, "I don't speak Japanese." You take a moment, eyebrows drawn in confusion.
"I don't speak Italian," you mutter uselessly, and his glare is blank and hard - impossibly hard - and you laugh quietly. He doesn't acknowledge you much the rest of the time you wait, simply draws from his cigarette and squints through the bars of the drain above, casting moonlight on his clothes like prisoner stripes.
The signal beams from the world at your heads, and he gestures at you, runs off without you.
You make a rather impressive team that first night against the Merino family thugs, carelessly slashing swords and pulling triggers in a peaceful Italian night, and men are yelling and crying, because Mafia is a fresh business full of pipedreams and unpredictability, and young men seek it for it's glory, not it's crude shame sprawled in the most soundless streets in all the country, bleeding into the apathetic filth between the cobblestone. They run; your partner raises a lax arm, and it violently shakes three times in a row with gunshots, precise and perfectly executed.
He taps the body next to him with the tip of his shoe, letting out a breath of smoke. "Christo," he hisses, softly, and he jerks his head at you, indicative, so you do with your duties - feeling invincible and alive and a little on edge - and you bang your flare into the sky, leaving the Cloud to get rid of the bodies. You hurry away, hearing the suspicious din of footsteps, of clacking guns and belted knives.
"Benissimo," he says offhandedly, tugging on his coat and blowing a ring of smoke skywards. You watch his breath, cold, stretching across the blackness, and shudder in your coat.
This is where you belong.
Title: silent movies
Pairing: Slight Ugetsu->G.
Summary: Stars of the silent movies.
silent movies
You meet him in the sewer's of Turin. You greet him wholeheartedly, with the dirt-water clogging in your shoes and pulling your trousers tight against your legs from the knee down, and a smile impossibly genuine on your face. Spidery tattoos creep up his cheeks like spiraling black branches, thin and curled, halting at the collar of his shirt, disappearing into the alabaster hollow of his collar bone.
When you reach your hand out, he frowns. When he takes it, you won't lie, the bones hurt a little from his grip; and you counter it like you would any challenge, with a smile. You tighten your grasp, too.
"It's nice to finally meet you," you say, because it is and because it's only polite.
His fingers fumble with his gun incessantly, and it takes a moment or two before it sounds a satisfying click that he replies from a lazy corner of his mouth, "I don't speak Japanese." You take a moment, eyebrows drawn in confusion.
"I don't speak Italian," you mutter uselessly, and his glare is blank and hard - impossibly hard - and you laugh quietly. He doesn't acknowledge you much the rest of the time you wait, simply draws from his cigarette and squints through the bars of the drain above, casting moonlight on his clothes like prisoner stripes.
The signal beams from the world at your heads, and he gestures at you, runs off without you.
You make a rather impressive team that first night against the Merino family thugs, carelessly slashing swords and pulling triggers in a peaceful Italian night, and men are yelling and crying, because Mafia is a fresh business full of pipedreams and unpredictability, and young men seek it for it's glory, not it's crude shame sprawled in the most soundless streets in all the country, bleeding into the apathetic filth between the cobblestone. They run; your partner raises a lax arm, and it violently shakes three times in a row with gunshots, precise and perfectly executed.
He taps the body next to him with the tip of his shoe, letting out a breath of smoke. "Christo," he hisses, softly, and he jerks his head at you, indicative, so you do with your duties - feeling invincible and alive and a little on edge - and you bang your flare into the sky, leaving the Cloud to get rid of the bodies. You hurry away, hearing the suspicious din of footsteps, of clacking guns and belted knives.
"Benissimo," he says offhandedly, tugging on his coat and blowing a ring of smoke skywards. You watch his breath, cold, stretching across the blackness, and shudder in your coat.
This is where you belong.